Rising from the Ashes
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: After the events of The Reichenbach Fall, John Watson is struggling with his grief and the post-traumatic-stress brought on by Sherlock Holmes' apparent suicide. Sherlock meanwhile is hiding out with Molly Hooper, as he works to clear his name and return to Baker Street. (JohnxSherlock) (Follow-up: /s/9053164/1/Rising-From-the-Ashes-epilogue )
1. Chapter 1

"Goodbye John…"

The small figure on the rooftop hung up with an audible gulp of unsteady breath. _He wouldn't_… A mobile phone landed with a muffled clatter on the rooftop behind him. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl. _No_.

John felt himself screaming, but he couldn't hear anything but his heart pounding.

Arms spread almost casually, like hopping down from a short stair, Sherlock Holmes stepped off the ledge. His coat fluttered around him for a moment. John sprinted forward, shouting… something, he couldn't recall a moment later what it was.

The thump of a lanky body hitting the pavement. God it was awful. Even over the ringing in his ears, the ache in his head, he heard it.

With a sob, John Watson shot up in bed, the thin blue fabric of Sherlock's bathrobe clutched in his fingers like a lifeline, his heart pounding hard in his chest. A hand raised automatically to his mouth, trying to stifle the wracking sobs that threatened to erupt. He couldn't wake Mrs. Hudson again. She would try to comfort him and he just couldn't bear the thought.

He noted, distantly, that his knuckles had gone white and reluctantly loosened his grip on the robe. A moment later, he reflexively tightened it again. He had barely let go of it since the funeral.

Sherlock's funeral-

"Oh god…" it pushed him back over the edge, and he buried his face in the worn fabric, feeling hot tears streaking down his cheeks. "I.. I can't-" He struggled to calm himself, even out his straggled breathing. Not working.

He marshaled himself as best he could. With an effort he tried to put the reassuring wall of his military training between himself and his emotions. "Can't… I can't…." He tried taking deep steady breaths but that only made him cough.

"Sod this." He heaved himself heavily out of bed. Sleep was a luxury since that day, and more often than not left him more exhausted than he'd been when he laid down. The tightness in his chest threatened to overwhelm him again.

"Tea." It was stupid, but a hot cup of tea often helped on nights like this. Something familiar and comforting. The mindless preparation, the routine. It was something Sherlock had never really been a part of, and it let him have a few blessed minutes of peace from his thoughts.

_Fetch a mug. Find the tea. Who the hell bought pomegranate-jasmine of all things?! Focus. Fill the kettle. Fetch the tea-bag. Boil the water. Put the bag in the mug. No sense making a whole pot of the stuff now... NO. FOCUS. _Bad idea…

He watched the reddish tea infusion begin to swirl out across the surface of the water, a dark scarlet, like the blood flowing over the pavement outside St. Bart's-

With a strangled growl, he flung the mug away from him, watching with a savage satisfaction as it shattered in the sink, filling it with ceramic shards and sludgy red tea concentrate. The teabag slowly oozed towards the drain, pulling several sharp looking bits of ceramic with it. Swearing under his breath, he moved to clean up the aftermath, but found he couldn't bring himself to touch it. The images in his head were replaying over and over again with vicious, fresh intensity, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. Somewhere downstairs he distantly registered the sound of Mrs. Hudson stirring. Her nervous footsteps crossed to her bedroom door, but she seemed to think better of it and return to bed. She murmured something but didn't get up again.

Alone in the flat he'd once shared with his unexpected friend, John sank to the floor, huddling into himself, trying to shut it out. His face pressed into the cold kitchen tile as he shook, curled into a ball, choking on his own sobs. Sherlock fell in front of his eyes, again and again, no matter how tightly he squeezed them shut. The sound, the blood… the vacant grey eyes staring unseeing up at the sky.

He'd seen war, shooting, explosions... He thought he was hardened to death by now. He'd buried friends before. Somehow, this was worse. Harder. He didn't know why.

The sun rose slowly into a grey, rainy morning to find him still there, a sheen of cold clammy sweat clinging to his skin, Sherlock's robe still clutched desperately in his hands, face pressed to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell sounded downstairs. John jerked guiltily awake on the floor, still dressed in nothing but his boxer shorts and a grimy unwashed shirt at, god what time was it? 2 in the afternoon? He probably looked as shit as he felt. He'd nodded off sometime around dawn into a blissfully empty sleep. Functioning as a normal human being had fallen by the wayside immediately after his best friend had- No. No sense letting that back into his head now. He was reluctant to return to the real world, but the sun beat in through his window, bright and obnoxiously cheerful, and he knew there wasn't much choice but to accept that another empty day was forcing his participation. The bell sounded again, followed by several more rings. They were likely getting annoyed that he still hadn't answered. Mrs. Hudson appeared to be out, as she hadn't responded to the door yet, either.

Maybe they'd go away? He stood up stiffly, glanced at the sink, decided that he still couldn't face it, and grimaced toward the stairwell where the doorbell continued to sound a growingly impatient tattoo. They were persistent. Probably better to just answer it and get it over with. Then he could drink himself into a stupor for the rest of the day and try not to think. Thinking hurt. Oblivion, at least, was empty.

The bell sounded sharply several more times. Grumbling, he set the robe gently over the back of a chair, absently caressing the hem before stumping down the stairs to face whoever so desperately wanted to talk to him.

He flung the door open grouchily. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU- Oh… Molly. Sorry. I… I'm sorry, that was rude." The mousey young woman looked slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly.

"No… I understand. I miss him too." She looked down at her shoes awkwardly.

He fumbled for something appropriate to say. He felt a little guilty shouting at Molly, who had been oddly quiet since Sherlock's suicide. She seemed to have taken it hard as well. "I…. come in."

They walked up the stairs in awkward silence, and stood in the messy un-touched living room for a few moments more.

"I... would offer you some tea, but I seem to have had … difficulties with-… yes." John trailed off uncomfortably. He didn't really want to talk right now. To anyone. Much less someone who felt his pain just as keenly as he did. Molly, flustered as usual, offered to make a pot, but quickly quieted again when he all but shouted "NO."

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Did… you need something?"

"What?"

"Why. Are. You. Here. Molly?"

"OH! Oh my god, I'm sorry!" She rummaged in her large shoulder bag for a few moments, coming up with an uncomfortably familiar mobile phone, slightly scratched from where it had fallen to the surface of the roof. It was unmistakable and John Watson began to tremble. She held it out, offering it to him. He stared.

"What is that?" He asked, praying he was imagining things. It couldn't be. She wouldn't-

"It's his phone. I think he meant for you to have it." She offered it again. He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Sherlock-" he paused as his voice broke, composing himself before continuing. "Sherlock is … gone. How do you know he wanted me to … to have his phone of all things?"

"John-" This time it was Molly who paused. She seemed to be weighing her words carefully. "I talked to him, before … before it happened. He was afraid. He was afraid something would go wrong. He asked me to make sure that you got this if anything…" She stopped then pushed forward with visible effort "happened."

Several things clicked into place in John's mind at once. "You knew."

"I-"

"You KNEW he was going up to that roof to face Moriarty?!" She didn't answer. "You knew… why the hell didn't you help him? Why didn't you stop him?!" John wasn't a tall man, but he was powerfully built and he could intimidate when he wanted to. He drew himself up to his most imposing and he was every inch a soldier in that moment. A very, very angry solider.

Molly shrank back slightly, but she surprised him by standing her ground.

"He asked me to help him, John. He was afraid. Mostly for you. You never saw it, but I know the way he looked at you when your back was turned. He CARED about you. Do you know how big a deal that is for him?" Her eyes misted faintly. "I tried for years just to get a friendly word out of him…" She paused sharply, collected herself, and then continued before he could interject. "So when stood there… shaking like a- when he asked me to send you away- to keep you safe… I did it. "

"That was you on the phone, wasn't it. You're the one who told me Mrs. Hudson had been shot so I'd leave…"

She nodded meekly. "Have you EVER seen him afraid, John? I hadn't. He was trying to sound calm. Nothing wrong. But he couldn't keep his voice from cracking. No snappy comebacks. It wasn't like him. He was scared out of his head, and he needed my help. What else could I have done?"

John stared at her, barely comprehending. "You let him go to his death." The words came out flat. The fire he'd meant to put behind them just wasn't there.

"He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but… we knew it was a possibility. He didn't want you to get hurt. He knew you'd try to intervene, try to save him. And you'd get hurt. Maybe killed. He couldn't stand the thought."

"You let him die." John repeated, still processing. Molly had practically worshiped Sherlock. She wouldn't throw him to the wolves with nothing but a mobile…This didn't make sense. "You let him die. How could you- Why would you-" His control cracked and his shoulders sagged. He sank down on the dirty rug, face in his hands. "Why would you let him go up there alone?" the words came out in a thin, strained whisper.

Molly's face was blank. She avoided his eyes when he looked up. "I know it's been hardest on you of any of us… I'm sorry things happened this way. I… I should go." She set the mobile phone down on the mantle and turned back to him, trying to set a comforting hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off, glaring daggers. She nodded. "I'm sorry about all of this, John. I really am."

He listened to her shoes click down the stairs and heard the door open and close behind her. Anger and sorrow warred inside of him and he couldn't decide if he should break something or just cry himself inside out. He settled on drinking until he couldn't remember his own name, let alone that his best friend was- … Where the hell had he left that bottle of bourbon? Better fetch the whiskey as well.


	3. Chapter 3

A faint "Aaah" noise woke him sometime around 11pm. John sat up in a blur, still a bit drunk from pouring half the contents of his liquor collection down his throat over the course of the afternoon. The sound was familiar… where had he heard it before? "Aaaah" the throaty sexual noise came from the mantel, accompanied by a very faint buzz as the phone it was coming from vibrated in place. An unpleasant rush of memory washed over him. Molly's 'present'. Right. What sick bastard was sending texts to a dead-man? He staggered up off of the couch, taking a moment to right himself before stumbling toward the mantle. His hand shook. He reached for the phone.

"Aaaah" it buzzed again. His hand jerked back, startled. Tears started uninvited, but he blinked them back, bracing himself against his own thighs, trying to get his breathing back under control. It wasn't funny. It wasn't fair. "Aaaah" it buzzed again. He snatched it off the mantel then, trying to focus his fuzzy vision on the letters stretching across the screen. He read the first message and the phone slipped numbly from his fingers. He scrabbled to catch it.

"I'm sorry.-SH"

"Wasn't meant to go like this – SH"

"No choice. –SH"

John trembled, trying not to fall apart a third time in one day. It seemed obvious, these were messages set up to be sent if something happened to Sherlock. That's why he'd wanted John to have the phone. He scrolled down to see the last message, bracing himself.

"See you soon –SH"

He stared at the phone, uncomprehending. What did that mean… see him soon? That didn't seem to fit the theme of the other messages. He considered throwing the phone, but reconsidered. There could be more messages. In spite of himself, he couldn't give up that chance. The hope hurt, but the hopelessness hurt more. He set it gingerly back on the mantle. He didn't dare reply to the messages. What could he possibly say?

"One more miracle…" His own words played back in his head. "For me."


	4. Chapter 4

**_6 months earlier_****:**

The sirens died down in the background as Molly stood alone, staring at the cadaver in front of her. Others had offered to take over the handling of the body, since they'd been colleagues (no one went as far as to call them 'friends'). She'd refused, saying it was only right. She owed it to him. Her hands played nervously over the plastic bag containing Sherlock's phone. It had been found, examined, and discarded. Lestrade had given it to her. He didn't want to face John Watson after the scene in their flat. No one did. No one had really wanted to be responsible for cataloguing Sherlock Holmes either, and it did seem somehow right that she be the one to take care of his remains. They'd left her alone so she could work, and mourn, in peace.

"Dear god, what was in that capsule?" A deep voice startled her out of her thoughts. It was groggy but sharp and unmistakable. She tugged back the sheet over the body and found still-hazy grey eyes looking up at her, the pale face crusted with dried blood. He started to sit up but couldn't manage it and slid back down to the slab with a groan. "Ugh, everything hurts."

"God Sherlock…" as usual the words came out as a sort of timid sigh. "You scared the life out of me. You were so long coming back 'round, I was starting to think something had really gone wrong." She glanced across the dimmed morgue. Not even a cleaning crew nearby. Thank goodness for small favors.

She heaved Sherlock up into an unstable sitting position braced heavily against her shoulder and proffered an aspirin and a large bottle of water. "Drink all of that. You'll need it."

He grimaced at her motherly tone, but did as instructed, swallowing the tablet and gulping the water down. A good portion slopped down his front. Nausea flowed over him as the water filled his empty stomach. Molly's hand appeared, dutifully holding out a bucket, into which went the last traces of the drug he'd administered to himself on the rooftop. She gently lowered him back onto the slab and flung the small trash-bag into the incinerator.

"Ugh… I feel like I fell off a building." Sherlock groaned again, wiping his mouth on handkerchief and swaying a bit unsteadily as he pressed himself upright again under his own power.

"Don't try to make jokes, Sherlock, it's not really your area." Molly met his petulant scowl with a faint smile. "Can you stand up yet?"

He swung a lanky leg over the edge of the slab and scooted forward, tumbling unceremoniously towards the floor. Molly dove and managed to keep him from cracking his head open (again). "That's a no, then."

"Nothing… happened… did it?" Sherlock's voice had that unnatural, fragile quality to it again.

"No. Everyone's alright. Or… as alright as you can be after you watch someone swan-dive off a roof." She suppressed a shudder. "They're taking it hard…"

He grunted, cutting her off and indicating this area of conversation now over - satisfied, if surprised, that Moriarty had kept his word. John and the others were safe.

"So." Molly quickly adopted a false bright briskness. "You can stay with me for now; get back on your feet. I just have the cat, so nobody will know you're there."

"I… Thank you." It seemed genuine. A first for him. She flushed.

He had regained his feet now, and towered over her on wobbly legs, holding the edge of the slab for support. He was still pale and anemic looking, but very much alive.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up and out of those bloody clothes. My car is right outside."


	5. Chapter 5

Two days passed in painful silence, John staring haggardly at the phone on the mantle. Willing it to ring, to vibrate. To do anything but sit there, mocking him. He hadn't slept since that last message. He hadn't moved from his chair for more than a few moments, and he never went out of ear-shot. Nothing more happened.

Halfway through the third day, he simply couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and slumped onto the arm of his chair, passing out from sheer exhaustion, bitter disappointment flowing over him as his last waking thought. Sherlock was dead after all. Some evil bastard had just been getting his hopes up to toy with him. That was low… Who the hell even had that number? He drifted off, the strained deepening lines on his face relaxing slightly as sleep finally took him over.

He thought vaugely, sometime later, through a haze of sleep, that he heard a familiar baritone voice, that he felt himself being shaken, but the memory of the voice triggered other memories and soon he was watching the figure on the roof again… arms out, he stepped-

"JOHN." Something shook him, hard, and his eyes snapped open. A pale blur topped with a mop of dark blur was centimeters in front of his face. It focused into a familiar face, grey eyes staring at him with uncomfortable concern. John stared, then moaned, burying his face in his hands.

"God, I'm hallucinating now."

The hands on his shoulders loosened slightly. There was a tangible uncertainty.

"John… I'm so sorry… I didn't-" A long pause. "I never meant for-…"

He looked up in spite of himself. The hallucination was still there, wearing Sherlock Holmes' face. The eyes were troubled now. They were locked on him with an intensity usually reserved for tough cases. Unexpectedly, John felt his shoulders heave of their own accord. It was too much. He sobbed, sagging forward into the unexpectedly solid torso of an unexpectedly solid Sherlock. Thin arms snaked hesitantly around his shoulders, then as if deciding something was better than nothing, they pulled him tightly into the thin chest his head rested against.

"You're…. you're really here?" A finger experimentally touched the arms, finding them solid. A shudder of unidentifiable emotion ran through the shaken ex-soldier. He flung his arms around his friend and pulled him into a tight, desperate bear-hug. "Oh my god, you're… I don't know how, but you're here. Please, god, don't be a dream."

Sherlock clung to him, not knowing what to do, but desperately wanting to comfort his friend. Desperately wanting to make it ok.

"I had to, John. I'm so sorry. I had to. If I had told you- If I hadn't done it. They would have killed Mrs. Hudson. Lastrade. … You." He choked on the last word. His shoulders shook with restrained emotion. He was in wholly unfamiliar territory now. "He had killers waiting. If I hadn't done it…. If they didn't see me fall. Really believe I was dead…" He noted Watson's trembling almost clinically. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't tell you. You had to believe it, or it might not have worked… I couldn't-" He gave up trying to explain. His brain, normally whirring efficiently, felt drunk and agitated. He buried his face in John's hair, releasing a few tears that could not quite be contained against the other man's scalp. They clung together in ragged, charged silence for several minutes.

A muffled voice came from Sherlock's shoulder. "You told Molly."

"I did." His voice was more or less back under his control again, though the reeling of his brain had not steadied.

"Why tell her, and not tell me. I thought I was your friend. Your _one_ friend." John still shook, but his voice was steady, if thin. He pulled back slightly. Sherlock released him, reluctantly.

"… I knew you'd intervene. And likely be killed. 'Friends protect each other', isn't that what you told me?" A half-hearted punch to the arm was his answer. John wanted to really hit him. To take out his furiously tattered emotions on this man. Who had terrified him, nearly broken him. Made him watch as he 'died'. But somehow he was just too damned happy to see him breathing and upright.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, you bloody stupid bastard." John grumbled, sinking back down into the comfort of his friend's arms.

Knowing Sherlock was alive…. Tired as he was, it was the biggest relief he could ever remember experiencing.

Without knowing why, he subconsciously set about memorizing the comfortingly unique smell Sherlock always bore. He wasn't sure why, but somehow it _was_ comforting and he wanted to be able to go back to this moment one day. The odd mix of lavender soap, formaldehyde, old wool, and books reminded him, however strangely, of home.

"Right! Well, let's get you to bed. You look a mess." Sherlock stood up with sudden briskness, offering a skinny shoulder for John to lean against.

"Your fault." John felt a little giddy, a childish giggle building his throat.

He teetered across the flat, leaning heavily on Sherlock, head resting wearily against the surprisingly strong arm that supported him.

"I already – " Sherlock paused glancing into the kitchen. "You broke my favorite mug."

"Your fault." John repeated, staggering a little as he began to feel light-headed.

"Mm…" Not important now. He needed to get John to bed before the man passed out. He didn't really want to have to carry his muscular flatmate all the way to his room. "Come on you. Off to bed."

He managed to get John into the correct bedroom and under blankets. Fresh clothing was simply not going to happen, whether either of them had been comfortable undressing the other or not. John was simply too heavy for Sherlock to dress him and much too dazed to do it himself. 3-day-old clothes would have to do for now. Bleary, worn eyes looked up from the pillow at Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmm?"

"You… you're not going to leave again are you? I'm not going to wake up and this'll all be a dream?"

"I-" he paused. "No. I won't leave." He reached down and clutched Watson's thick, calloused hand comfortingly. "I have what I need to clear my name. I can come home. To Baker Street…." John had drifted off into exhausted sleep again, warmth and the comfort of his best friend's presence lulling him. "-And to you."

Sherlock's eyes became inscrutable. He closed them wearily and gave the hand a gentle squeeze. "God, I missed you. Nowhere is home without you anymore." Certain that his friend was solidly asleep, leaned down and softly kissed the dry knuckles of the hand he held, setting it gently down on top of the covers. "You certainly have made a mark on me, John Watson." He laughed humorously under his breath, and pulled up a chair.

John had been a target. A mark for a trained assassin. He was in danger anytime someone associated him with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock made him a target just by being nearby, but he couldn't stand to leave now. Not after seeing the hurt and betrayal in those trusting eyes. He just couldn't.

He turned the chair to suit him and sat facing the bed, arms resting crossed over the back of it. John Watson mumbled in his sleep and rolled over, soon snoring contentedly. No, he certainly didn't intend to leave again. Drawing his phone out of his pocket, retrieved earlier in the evening from the mantle, he began quietly tapping out a message.

_Took news better than expected. Thank you. -SH_

_For_ _looking after him, that is. – SH_

_:) Sobered up, had he? –MollyH_

_Really, though…He missed you terribly. You be good to him, now - he's had a hard time of it. –MollyH_

Sherlock couldn't answer. His eyes had become oddly blurry and he couldn't see the screen clearly anymore. Hard time of it. Yes. Yes he had.

He put it away, swiping his sleeve across his eyes until they cleared.

"I'm sorry." He murmured inaudibly, repeating it like a mantra, eyes locking on the sleeping face of the man who'd looked 10 years younger when he'd last seen him, only a few months ago. He wasn't sure when he'd started to care so deeply about his flat-mate, but the pain he'd caused with his 'suicide' was written clearly in every deepened line on John's face, and it surprised Sherlock, just as deeply, to realize how much it hurt him to read it there. "I had no other choice, John. I'm sorry." He whispered to no-one in particular. It was true, but the words sounded hollow and self-pitying. There should have been another option. Another way out. He should have found it. "I'm so, so sorry."

His head fell forward onto his arms and he fought to regain composure and calm. How had things become such a god-forsaken mess? This was the third time John had nearly died because of his involvement with Sherlock and his precious case-work. Three times, he'd nearly lost the person he valued most in the world. Would he be able to stop it next time? A thousand horrifying scenarios filled his head. He reached for a nicotine patch but stopped himself. He could suffer this out. A penitence of sorts. It seemed fitting.


	6. Chapter 6

**_6 months earlier_****:**

Molly quietly delivered Sherlock to her car and tucked him under an old blanket in the rear hatch, where he could curl up and not be spotted. Then she returned to the morgue and removed all traces of what they'd done.

A John Doe who'd been forgotten in all the chaos of the last few days was dressed in Sherlock's bloody clothing. She placed a shroud over the corpse and with a bit of struggle, wrestled it onto the conveyor belt and sent it slowly sliding into the incinerator. When the body had been completely consumed by the flames, she breathed a sigh of relief and set to scrubbing down her workspace. Sherlock would've been appalled at the 'sloppiness' of not removing every last trace that he'd ever been there, but she didn't have time to scour the place to the ground and she doubted anyone was going to check all that carefully. Besides, she had a still half-delirious detective crammed in the back of her car and he'd need a shower and a proper meal soon to counteract all the stress he'd just put his body through.

When she arrived, as they'd rehearsed, red-eyed and nearly hysterical in her supervisor's office saying she wasn't feeling well, they'd given her the rest of the week off. Several sympathetic pats on the shoulder saying what a nice girl she was to feel bad for such a creep later - she was in her car listening to the endless diatribe of Sherlock loudly making note everything he could remember about the last several days streaming out from under the blanket in the back of the car. Well, at least that meant he was feeling better...


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock didn't realize he'd nodded off until the frantic mumbling and thrashing coming from the bed jolted him awake. A quick assessment of the situation and he understood. John's face was beaded with cold sweat and he'd clawed his way out from under the comforter, splayed awkwardly across the bed. "Don't…. don't you-"

Nightmares then. He heard his name among unintelligible murmurs, panicked and hoarse.

What was the proper response to nightmares? He didn't want to wake John up again; he'd looked so tired, so weak… How did normal people handle this sort of thing?

"John." He leaned close, speaking in soft soothing baritone into his friend's ear. "It's alright." The thrashing slowed. John's chest heaved raggedly. He was practically hyperventilating. Sherlock hesitantly grasped one of the doctor's shaking hands which clamped desperately onto his fingers at once. "I'm right here. It's not real. Breathe, John. Breathe."

John's head snapped up. His eyes opened, rolled back into his head, then cleared as he panted out the last of his terror, his desperate, powerful grip so tight that Sherlock winced at the pressure. He didn't try to pull away.

John's breath came in uneven spurts and his hammering pulse was audible to both of them. He seemed confused, uncertain. He followed the hand he was nearly crushing back to the arm it belonged to and immediately released it. "Sorry…"

"No need-" Sherlock waved off the apology. He rubbed his sore hand a moment, then realized what he was doing and stopped, guiltily. His eyes locked onto John's face, something surprisingly gentle in them. "Is it always like this?"

"What part: the screaming or the crying like a little girl?" John grinned tiredly, tension slowly draining out of him as he sat up. A weary hand ineffectually wiped at the sweat on his brow. The grin faded at the stony expression of the man looking down at him. "For god's sake, Sherlock, it was a joke."

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. John sighed, stretching his arms high over his head and popping a crick out of his neck.

"I forgive you. You're a bastard, and I shouldn't ever forgive you for any of it, but I do." John's voice was strained and tired. "Now quit feeling sorry for yourself. And I swear to god, if you tell anyone I was… like that-"

"I won't." Sherlock muttered absently. He was musing. That was never a good sign. "Move over."

"… What? Sherlock, why do I need to-" but Sherlock had already stood up and had climbed halfway onto the bed before the words even left his mouth. John sighed. "Bloody git…"

He stared at his flat-mate in confusion as the tall skinny figure tidied up the twisted sheets and lay down, making himself comfortable. "What the hell are you-?"

"Come here." Sherlock flicked back the edge of the blanket and opened his arms across the bed, expectantly.

"Sherlock… I'm not-" His breath huffed out of him as Sherlock yanked him bodily down next to him and expertly flicked the covers neatly across them both. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

"I'm… look, my mother used to put me in her bed when I had nightmares as a child - and for god's sake don't give me that look." Sherlock looked entirely out of his depth and mildly frantic that he was doing this 'comforting' thing entirely wrong. It was almost endearing.

"Ah…" John felt uncomfortably… well… **_comfortable_** curled up beside his flat-mate, the reassuring rhythmic breathing beside him reminding him that Sherlock was in fact alive, and present. He noted with a slightly smug feeling that Sherlock's pulse was going a bit quick. _Nervous, are you?_ "Forget it. Thank you. Goodnight." He let his head sink down against Sherlock's shoulder, finding the steady thump-thump of the detective's heartbeat comforting. He vaguely felt a stiff, uncertain arm land gingerly across his shoulders but pretended to have already drifted off. Sherlock was trying. No need to make it any more awkward for either of them.

A strange contentment stole over Sherlock as he watched John's obviously pretend sleep smooth into genuine dreamless rest. He let himself relax, surprised to find himself enjoying the alien feeling of John's unwashed hair against his arm, unshaven stubble scratching whenever the man shifted, the soft, steady breath against the fabric of his shirt. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile as he settled his arm more comfortably around his friend's shoulder. _There. Not so hard, this 'comforting' thing. Goodnight John._


	8. Chapter 8

**_6 months earlier_****:**

Molly flicked the lights on as she closed the door behind them. Sherlock was still shaky, but he'd managed the stairs reasonably well. He blinked uncomfortably in the harsh incandescent light for a few moments then sank gratefully into a chair before she could offer him one. He felt tired and sore in places he didn't even know he had until now. A bone-weary groan escaped him.

Molly materialized next to him a moment later. "Are you alright? I don't think you actually broke anything, but-"

"Fine." His head, tossed back against the too-low back of the padded armchair, didn't raise, but he waved a hand vaguely at her to demonstrate all was well.

"Right…" She decided to let it be. "I'll… just make us some tea, shall I?"

She took his silence as assent.

"So… are you going to tell him?" Molly's voice drifted nervously from the kitchen. Sherlock's head slowly and deliberately came up.

"Tell who?" The tone was bored, impatient even, but his eyes betrayed him. She pursed her lips.

"You know who I mean." Molly stood in the doorway, oven-mitted hand holding a steaming kettle. "Are you going to tell him?"

Sherlock didn't answer. She sighed and returned to the kitchen, setting the tea to steep.

"I won't tell you what to do. He's your friend and it's your secret to tell. But-" She stopped and took a deep breath "I can tell you from experience. It will eat him up inside. Thinking you're- … you're-" She didn't finish her sentence. It had come too close to being true. She couldn't let herself think about it yet.

"He's better off thinking I'm dead. Safer." Sherlock's head was flopped back again, staring inscrutably through her ceiling. "No one will be holding a gun to his head if I'm not there to bait with it. Mrs. Hudson too. No, I'll just keep the giant target off their backs a while longer, thanks."

She changed the subject.

"Right… well the loo's down the hall. You can use the pull-out over there and I'll get you some sheets."

"Towel."

"Yes, and a towel."

"Thank you." She smiled faintly at that. Un-prompted this time. So he was capable of manners after all.

She bustled around the flat as Sherlock sipped at the cheap corner-shop tea she'd offered him. He was thinking. A worn out fluffy pink towel plunked down next to him.

"Right, well… I'm off to bed then." She stood awkwardly waiting for him to say something. He didn't look up. "Goodnight then, Sherlock…."

"Molly." She froze; hand just about to open her bedroom door. He had timed that deliberately… "You'll…. Look in on John, now and then, won't you? I think he'd find it… comforting."

She turned back and gave him a small, sad smile. "Of course I will. Get some rest."

She wondered, vaguely, leaning against the door as it closed behind her, if he realized how his voice changed whenever John was mentioned. It lost its strength, its surety. It melted her heart. Sherlock could be a jerk. A whopping, thoughtless, callous jerk. And he certainly hadn't the faintest interest in her romantically, no matter what hopes she might once have entertained… but he had a heart in there. And she knew who he'd given it to.

Lucky man, that John of his. The poor lucky bastard.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock slept lightly, waking periodically to give John's hand a tight squeeze whenever the doctor began to mutter and tremble. After a few moments of steady pressure, the nightmare would subside and John would go limp as a rag-doll again, his contorted face smoothing as he drifted back to sleep. A small place inside Sherlock ached each time he woke up to John's terrified dreaming. It was all his fault. He'd never meant to do this. He just wanted to keep John safe. He'd failed at that, even if he'd kept him alive.

As the sun crept over the horizon, he gave up on sleeping and instead rolled onto his side, studying the change in his friend. The morning sun was no kinder than the semi-darkness had been. John looked older. Years older, though they'd only been apart a matter of months. He'd lost weight, Sherlock noted. And his cane had been lying beside the chair John had been slouched in when he arrived. So the limp had returned in his absence then… He noted the signs of dehydration, lack of sleep, the occasional frenetic twitching of John's left hand. Hadn't shaved in a week or better, but he'd clearly been keeping it up for a while, judging by the skin underneath and the length of the stubble. Probably hadn't been to work in ages, though, from the state of him.

"Dammit Molly. Had to be right…." He made a mental note not to let her say I told you so should the opportunity arise.

Sherlock fidgeted. He wanted badly to get up and pace, play his violin, chase down a criminal... Anything but lie here wallowing in guilt. But as he thought about getting up, he remembered John's pleading eyes, looking up at him.

_"You… you're not going to leave again are you? I'm not going to wake up and this'll all be a dream?"_

He stayed where he was, trying to keep still, swearing silently. _Should've used the patch when I had the chance…_

A few hours later, he'd settled back into an uneasy doze, half draped over John's shoulder, snoring faintly.

John drifted back to wakefulness feeling oddly refreshed. He hadn't slept this well in months. Something heavy and warm was flopped across him and one arm had gone to sleep from the weight. He creaked his eyelids open, finding himself face to chest with Sherlock Holmes who was snoring loudly in his ear. _Ah… right…_ he'd forgotten about that.

"Sherlock."A brief answering snort and a torso flopped further on top of him. "SHERLOCK." A button was trying to lodge itself up his nose. The snort broke off into a grunt and the gangly weight shifted off of him.

"Ah, John. Good morning. Feeling better?" Sherlock was wide awake in half an instant and hopped up and out of the bed and stretched widely. He seemed to have found nothing awkward about the sleeping arrangement in the slightest. John stared at him. Hair disheveled and still wearing the clothes he'd been in the night before, Sherlock was bounding around the room like a ferret on cocaine, rapid-fire talking as he always did. He seemed to have been storing hyper-active energy for hours, just waiting for the chance to use it. John made a mental note never to let Sherlock sleep in his room again.

He turned crimson remembering he was wearing nothing but his underwear and a t-shirt and tugged the sheet up over his lap. Well that one was bound to get people talking if they ever found out about it. Not that anyone listened to his "I'm not gay" protests anyways. He was beginning to wonder why he bothered.


	10. Chapter 10

**_3 months earlier_****:**

Molly shut the door of her flat as quietly as she could. She was feeling miserable after visiting at 221 B and she didn't particularly want to talk to Sherlock about it just now. Unfortunately, as usual, he was two steps ahead, waiting for her the instant she turned around.

"Ah, Molly, you're back." Sherlock perched on the banister a few feet from the door. He read her face immediately and sat back unhappily. "Doing that well, are they?"

"Awful." She sank into a chair, face in her hands as he swiveled around to face her. "Mrs. Hudson's agreed to let John stay on rent-free for a while. She feels so badly for him, and I do too. She's bearing up, but he's an utter mess. Sherlock. … You should tell him-"

"I can't."

"Right..." He didn't miss the slight exasperated roll of her eyes.

"What should I do, send him a nice text? 'Oh hello John, not dead after all. How's your newest girlfriend? Coming back, oh no. Not anytime soon.' That'd do him a world of good, would it?"

"He hasn't GOT any new girlfriend, Sherlock. He's still HEARTBROKEN over what he THINKS happened to you! He never even goes out anymore. So yes, do send him a text. Pop around for tea. ANYTHING. It'd be better than watching him claw himself to bits." Her voice cut off dangerously close to tears. Glaring angrily at him, she stood up and stormed into her bedroom.

Sherlock stared after her for a few moments, then returned to the computer he'd been sitting at just before she arrived. He had work to do.

**_1 week earlier_****:**

Molly woke up to a man's face inches above her own. She half-squealed with fright before recognizing the face.

"SHERLOCK! What are you doing?! You scared me half to-"

"I did it." He ignored her protests, shoving a laptop computer at her. "I have the last piece of the puzzle!" She scrolled confusedly through a few pdf documents that made little sense to her while he muttered to himself and paced the room.

"What IS all of this?"

"It's the key! It took months of digging, but I have it!" He was uncharacteristically cheerful, giddy almost.

"What- what key?"

Sherlock snatched the computer back out of her fingers. "This proves everything I said was true. All of it. I'm this close to being a free man, Molly!" He shoved his fingers, centimeters apart, at her face, then, apparently forgetting her presence, paced back out of the room. He was still crowing to himself as he retreated from the room and dropped himself back onto the pull-out sofa.

She stared out the door after him and then glanced at the clock. 5am. Grand. She sighed. Well, she was getting up in 3 hours anyway...

**_Yesterday afternoon_****:**

"Didn't go well?" Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. Sherlock waited right on the other side of her front door and her face told him all he needed to know about her latest visit with John.

"He's furious. Thinks I sent you up there to let you die all alone. I had to tell him something to get him to keep the mobile. I don't know if he'll ever forgive me for this whole mess…"

"If there anyone he'll never forgive, I think that honor will go to me." He mimed a figure falling off a building with his hand.

"Stop it, that's dreadful. I get the shivers just thinking about it. You looked awfully convincing."

"Had to, or it wouldn't have worked." He muttered. "Phone please?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock…"

"Mm?"

"Does anybody else know you're… y'know… alive?"

His manic energy slowed abruptly and he stood perfectly still.

"Not yet."

"So… just me? And Molly." He hoped that hadn't sounded bitter.

"Molly's known for months, John, she hardly counts."

"She counts, Sherlock. Could've bloody told me when she was over here all those times…"

"No she couldn't, I asked her not to. No one else knows yet. I wanted you to know before… well… almost anyone else. Molly told me that you- that it was hard on you. I thought you deserved to be first."

"Yes, hard on me. Bit of an understatement." He shook his head bitterly. " I've watched men step on landmines, Sherlock. They literally exploded right in front of me. And that wasn't nearly as 'hard on me' as watching you-" He broke off and fell silent. Still too raw, even with the 'dead' man standing right in front of him. Too vivid.

"Lastrade should be getting my email in" he glanced at his phone "10 minutes. After that, I estimate an hour at best before my name is fully cleared. I wonder if I can leverage this into sacking Anderson…"

"So that's it then. Big party. You're not dead. Everything back to normal." Watson's voice hitched. Sherlock stared, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. He'd done something wrong, obviously, but for the life of him he couldn't say what.

"John what-"

"Forget it." His face closed down. He might've known. Molly had told Sherlock he'd better show up and scrape his flat-mate up off the ground. For some reason he felt bitterly disappointed by this, though he wasn't sure why. "Forget I said anything. You're alive. I missed you."

Sherlock dropped into a crouch beside the bed, staring intently at him.

"Stop it, you're weirding me out."

"You're still angry at me."

"I am not."

"You are."

"I am- god, this is ridiculous. I feel like I'm arguing with a primary schooler…"

"John, I'm a sociopath, not an idiot. I may not understand emotions perse, but that doesn't mean I can't see them occurring."

"I said forget it." John Watson crawled off the bed, pushing past his flatmate, and headed to the bathroom. He hadn't showered in days. It would do him good.

Sherlock stared after him.

The hot water really did feel amazing after days of sweat and grime. John reveled in it. He took his time lathering up, enjoying himself. A quick peak around the shower curtain showed no sign of a lanky detective lurking in the shadows. He pushed the curtain closed and relaxed a little more.

" 'sociopath not an idiot' …bloody well _are_ an idiot." He grumbled to himself as the water coursed over his shoulders, easing some of the tension there. "'married to your work' alright. Couldn't spare a second for a 'not dead how d'you do.'" He knew he was over-reacting. Sherlock was his friend. He wouldn't have done all this in the first place if he wasn't. John could understand why he'd been kept in the dark all those months, even if it had eaten him alive at the time. But some part of him flamed angrily all the same. It didn't matter why Sherlock had come back last night. It mattered that he had. …Right?

"I missed you." A voice sounded on the other side of the curtain. Of course he'd followed him into the bathroom. Because of course he had.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I stepped off that ledge for you, you know."Sherlock continued without acknowledging he'd heard. Maybe he hadn't. "I might've done it for Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade… well I'm fond enough of him, I suppose. But for you I didn't hesitate. I don't know what that means, John. But it has to mean something, doesn't it?"

John didn't notice the water was getting colder. He was too thunderstruck trying to process what Sherlock was saying.

"I missed you as soon as I hung up the phone, John. I knew I might not survive the fall, planning or no planning. I knew I wouldn't see you for a long time after, either way." Sherlock's voice quavered slightly, but he kept talking. "I saw you at the cemetery, did you know that? No, of course you didn't. I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything to tell you that day. I wanted to give you your miracle. But I couldn't. You were still in danger then."

There was a long pause. The water gurgled in the drain.

"You are home, now John. You are _my_ home." A twinge of genuine emotion bled into his voice. John watched, still stunned, as the dark sillouette of Sherlock Holmes slid down the wall to sit hugging his knees against the baseboard. "I'm… I'm not good at this John. I'm trying…"

The water stopped abruptly. John's hand snaked shakily out of the shower-stall and snatched a nearby towel, emerging still half-soaped and dripping, the khaki towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Sherlock cast lost looking eyes up at him.

"You bloody idiot." John was kneeling in front of him, arms around Sherlock's waist, face pressed into his neck a moment later. "You are amazing, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled awkwardly at that, dropping his head down to rest on Watson's damp back. "Amazingly stupid, is it?"

"Oh certainly, that too." John's voice came muffled up from Sherlock's collar. "But just amazing will do for now."

They sat in silence for a few moments before Sherlock's lip quirked. "Are you wearing any pants under there?" He mimicked.

They both dissolved into laughter until their sides ached.

"Oh my god, it's good to have you back."


	12. Chapter 12

Three weeks had passed since Sherlock Holmes had cleared his name and officially been pardoned - not to mention thoroughly apologized to. Anderson and Donovan had both been sacked, as a special apology by Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock had cases again.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat with a tray of tea and homemade cookies as a treat for the two of them. She nodded at John, sound asleep on the sofa, head resting on Sherlock's leg. " Ah, I knew you boys would work it out sooner or later. He was _so_ happy to see you back in once piece, poor dear. Worn him out chasing all over the city again, have you?"

"Something like that, yes." Sherlock murmured and returned to the laptop he balanced on his other knee. As she left, buzzing about how she simply had to tell her friend that she'd soon have married ones too, Sherlock glanced down at the sleeping man and ran a thoughtful hand down the side of John's face. Perhaps there was room in his life for more than work. Closing the laptop he turned on the television and let his hand rest on Watson's shoulder. If not, he'd certainly make some.


End file.
